The Bruma Wind
by Morninglight
Summary: AU of the main Aurelii tales. Born to serve the Dragonborn and raised to be an elite prostitute, Aurelia Too-Tall was never meant to be anything more than a pretty face and broodmare for her clan. But one decision made in the wake of losing everything leads her to the College of Winterhold as an Apprentice... and into legend.
1. Chapter 1

Note: I should be working on Heroes, but I need a break because the latest chapter is utterly depressing. AU of the main Aureliiverse; breakpoint is Lia choosing to stay in the College of Winterhold as an Apprentice after Tolfdir and Onmund rescue her from the wreck of the Winter War.

Thank you Thu' for your translation engine and whoever came up with obscenities in Dovahzul. Thank you, OpalBee, for your ideas of healing too often and too fast making a body resistant to it and dragons(born) smelling of spices.

…

The Bannered Mare, Whiterun 4E 201

All the tales painted the life of a mage as one where the basic necessities of life were easily done by sorcery, spellbooks were readily available to those with the wit to learn them, and casting spells was so easy any idiot could do it. After all, couldn't all but the most fervently anti-magic or congenitally stupid cast Flames or Healing?

If returning to Cyrodiil wouldn't be more difficult than being a Bruma Nord in Skyrim, Lia would head back and kick the Synod mages in the collective balls for false advertising. It was less effort to do a chore by hand than with magic, spellbooks cost more than the meagre stipend of a College Apprentice, and the kindest thing her instructors had told her concerning her magical aptitude was voting her 'Most likely to die in an embarrassing manner after a miscast Illusion spell' at the Sun's Rest feast.

Getting sent to run errands for the senior faculty was a positive blessing. She'd only stayed on at the College because with her belongings at the bottom of the sea with the Winter War, no one would believe she was a special emissary of Tamriel's Emperor. And the storm had originated at Winterhold; Tolfdir had said so himself. She needed to neutralise that threat before going anywhere.

…Pity that being an Apprentice at Winterhold also involved investigating cursed cities, unearthing grandiosely named magical orbs and being under the eye of a Thalmor 'adviser' who watched her like a hawk.

On the upside, she was free of the damned robes and in a plain green shift with an indigo overdress, plain black boots she'd found in a wardrobe at the College on her feet. Lia longed distantly for the filmy turquoise silks of her Imperial Consort days because Skyrim weavers couldn't apparently make cloth smoother than rough-woven cotton from the native tundra, but she also knew the fragile fabric couldn't hold up to the rigours of a commoner's life. It was strange to be in a place where no one cared who she was, only how she could learn and apply knowledge, even if it came with a dose of racism from the Stormcloaks when they saw her olive-bronze skin and aquiline features.

Whiterun was a trade town topped with a fortress built from Nord myth. Rumour had it that a real dragon's skull hung in the throne room, leaving Lia to wonder if she could somehow wrangle an invitation into Dragonsreach while she was here. Urag had been non-specific on her return to Winterhold beyond 'getting those books from that idiot Orthorn'. Lia had done that yesterday, complete with clearing out a nest of Conjurers, and decided she deserved some downtime to catch up on local gossip.

She sipped her mead gingerly, regretting that her available coin didn't extend to a good bottle of Alto wine. The sour-sweet golden honey alcohol brewed by every Nord and his mother was a taste she'd acquired reluctantly because the ale tasted worse than piss (and after Cloud Ruler, Lia still recalled the taste of piss rather well). At least the local Honningbrew was a passable drink. On the other hand, Black-Briar Mead tasted like Maven pissed in every last bottle to provide the seventh secret ingredient, if the rumours about the shady Riften matriarch were true.

Lia looked over one of the local urchins huddled by the fire, scrubbing a pot for a plateful of scraps. She hoped Martin was doing well in Chorrol, he didn't know about the wreck of the Winter War and Titus could keep him safe until she could return to Cyrodiil to do it herself. The hope of the Empire rested on eight-year-old shoulders.

_I wonder if I could approach the local court wizard and see if he needs any errands run._ It wouldn't hurt for her to make friends with the Jarl's mage, especially in a central trading hub like Whiterun, and-

The double doors at the front of the inn opened, letting in a curl of late summer wind redolent with the lavender and tundra cotton which grew everywhere on the plains. Whiterun Hold was easily the most beautiful, bountiful place in Skyrim, reminding Lia of the West Wealde but with more wolves and bears, and crowned with a beautiful Nord fortress that touched a chord with the quarter-Nord of her heritage. She wondered if Balgruuf lived as luxuriously as a Count or the mages at the College…

A tall, rangy man in fine, fur-trimmed robes entered the tavern, smiling easily at the patrons. Platinum-blond hair, threaded with silver, was braided at the sides but allowed to otherwise flow freely to the shoulders, a neatly trimmed moustache and long goatee making his handsome, beak-nosed face even longer. Power hung from his shoulders like the snow-fox trim and golden chains of his sleeveless robes, a golden circlet set with rubies and emeralds proclaiming his status. Lia's mouth went dry as his ice-blue gaze swept across the tavern; conditioned to find wealthy older men attractive, it was rare for a Cyrodiiliac Companion to meet one who was still young and virile enough to make it genuine.

"Jarl Balgruuf!" Saadia, the scar-faced Ra Gada maid, greeted cheerfully. "Your usual?"

"Of course," he responded, his voice… resonant. Rich with an exotic accent that made Lia's toes curl. Many Nord men had it, but there was something about this man's beautiful enunciation that made her wonder if she could get away with breaking the vow of fealty she'd made to Titus to willingly seduce him.

_I have a mandate to find out what's going on in Skyrim,_ she reasoned mendaciously, taking a larger mouthful of mead than she should.

Saadia brought him a bottle of Honningbrew Reserve and a pewter tankard. Interestingly, no one made a move to clear a seat for the Jarl; back in Cyrodiil, if a Count entered the tavern, backsides would be off stools quicker than flies on shit.

"Snuck out again, my Jarl?" Jon Battle-Born, momentarily diverted from making eyes at Olfina Grey-Mane, asked of the man who ruled Whiterun and wasn't too proud to drink with his people.

Balgruuf smiled wryly after pouring his mead into his flagon. "Yeah."

"Mama, how come the Jarl can sneak out and I can't?" Mila Valentina asked of her mother Carlotta.

"Irileth will tell me off later," the Jarl told the child ruefully.

_Irileth? Sounds elven. Wife, mistress…? _Lia was trying to recall why the name sounded vaguely familiar.

"Is she your wife or your huscarl?" asked an armoured red-haired woman from the corner sardonically.

"She is my huscarl, but Dunmer and Nords have different approaches to nobility," Balgruuf growled. "Treat her with respect, Uthgerd."

"You should have a real Nord huscarl," Uthgerd retorted. She looked like she was spoiling for a fight.

"Like the woman who killed a Companion?" Balgruuf countered icily. "I think not."

_Companion – wait, the Fighters' Guild here goes by the name of the Companions,_ Lia reminded herself. In Cyrodiil, a woman who spoke as Uthgerd did to her town's lord would be lucky if she were merely exiled. Balgruuf seemed to be a remarkably tolerant individual.

And no one had offered the Jarl a seat. Lia rose, gesturing to the small stool she'd occupied. She could do with a rest anyway. "My Jarl, if you need a seat, you're welcome to mine."

Balgruuf's gaze swung her way and Lia shivered. This man wore leadership like a cloak. "'My Jarl'?" he asked mildly. "I usually have people give me their names first before offering personal loyalty."

Lia blinked, lost for words. Had she committed some breach of propriety? "I-I'm Lia," she finally stuttered, sounding like a virgin at her first picnic.

"Bruma Nord, eh?" That eagle gaze looked up and down, assessing her from head to toe, and warmed in a manner Lia knew intimately. "I take it you were saying 'My Jarl' instead of 'My Lord'?"

"Ye-es," Lia admitted. What the hell was wrong with her, that she couldn't string two eloquent words together?

"Thank you for the offer of a seat, but I'll not deprive a traveller of one," Balgruuf said kindly.

Lia sunk down into the stool, feeling a little relieved, as Balgruuf approached her curiously. "What brings a Bruma Nord to Skyrim?"

"I'm at the College of Winterhold," she responded, letting him draw his own conclusions from that.

"A mage?" Balgruuf stroked his long goatee. "You'll want to speak to Farengar, my court wizard, I imagine."

"Yes, thank you." Lia smiled at the Jarl, the warmest expression she could muster, and he returned it – though his eyes remained keen, as if he could sense her omitted truths.

"We also have an alchemist here – Arcadia."

"I met her. Lovely lady." They'd spoken of home and herbs for a good hour this morning, the alchemist critiquing Lia's alchemy in a way Colette didn't have the wits to.

"Indeed, though Danica is the superior healer. What School do you practice?" He was close to her, close enough she could smell a hint of lavender, tundra cotton and mountain flowers. He smelt like Whiterun did. Around her, satisfied the Jarl was questioning her, most of the other patrons turned their attention back to food, drink and that arrogant twit Mikel.

"My initial training was in Illusion with a touch of Restoration and Alteration, but Faralda thinks I have a flair for the Destruction School," Lia admitted, her voice huskier than it should be.

"No Conjuration?"

"My silver sword's enchanted with a soul trap, but I dislike dealing with spirits," she admitted huskily. "My ancestors fought against Mehrunes Dagon in the Oblivion Crisis, so my clan hates the School."

Balgruuf scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I have some work for you, if you want it. Are you in a rush to return to Winterhold?"

"I can spare a few days if need be," Lia responded, managing to hide her disappointment. He wanted to hire her to clear out some ghosts or demons, she imagined, not show him magic of a more intimate kind.

"Good." Balgruuf swallowed his drink and handed the flagon to Saadia. "Have you paid for a room here?"

"Not yet."

"Good. I can offer you a bed. Come."

Lia got that invitation to Dragonsreach, it seemed, but not quite in the way she wanted it…

…

Two Days Later…

Lia the Apprentice Mage from Winterhold was efficient, if nothing else. Her knowledge of destruction spells collected three bounties, retrieved a sword stolen from Amren and Saffir, and scared Mikel the bard into leaving Carlotta alone. She'd run up a broadsword forged by Avenicci's daughter Adrienne that Balgruuf wasn't supposed to know about and run frost salts down to Arcadia from Farengar. The Jarl of Whiterun had to admit she was the most efficient spellsword he'd met in a while and began to wonder if he could coax her to settle in Whiterun when she achieved Journeyman status.

That she was easy on the eye with that long black hair, olive-bronze skin and turquoise eyes was admittedly part of his wish to secure her allegiance. It had been worth Irileth's scathing lecture to make the woman's acquaintance.

But now she stood in his hall, turning in her last bounty and informing Avenicci she wouldn't be back for a while as she had her studies to pursue and duties to the College. Balgruuf remembered when he first saw her in the Bannered Mare, an exotic creature in a plain dress, and her shyness around him. At first he thought it was because she was a simple Apprentice from Winterhold and he was a Jarl, but then she had entered Dragonsreach and fallen into the rhythms of the court with the grace of easy familiarity.

He wanted to know more about her. What the scarlet tattoos twisting around her right forearm meant. If her lips would taste like snowberries, they were so red…

"I hope you'll return to Dragonsreach soon," Avenicci told Lia with perfect sincerity. "Too many of the Jarl's hires see insurmountable obstacles; you see problems and solutions."

"Given my preference, I'd stay here a little longer," Lia responded. "But I have duties in Winterhold, so…"

"You will always be welcome here," Balgruuf interrupted, emerging from the kitchen with a freshly baked sweet roll in hand. He always had to beat Dagny to them, for all she complained about their quality…

Lia smiled at him, the expression dazzling. He had to wonder what she did before becoming a mage, because she seemed to always know how to make a man's throat dry with desire. "Thank you, my Jarl," she told him with a husky catch to her voice.

"You are a terrible woman," he growled at her.

"Just noticed that now?"

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to buy property in Whiterun?" Avenicci suddenly asked the mage. "We've an old house for sale."

Lia closed her eyes, something wistful twisting her lovely face as she shook her head slowly. "It's too far away," she sighed.

"You could divert a portion of every bounty you collect from the Jarl towards the purchase of Breezehome," Avenicci continued coaxingly. "To be honest, there is a certain amount of self-interest in this. You're a highly competent battlemage; Farengar is an excellent researcher, enchanter and alchemist, but only moderately skilled in Alteration and Restoration."

"I'm an Apprentice," she responded, biting her lip. "Do you know how much spells and incantations cost, let alone soul gems for enchanting and spell components?"

"Avenicci, give the poor woman a break," Balgruuf told him. "She cannot take a position outside the College until she's a Journeyman."

The Steward raised an eyebrow but nodded. The man was an excellent administrator and a shrewd adviser when he had the brains to listen to that daughter of his but no understanding of the little social customs which defined Nord honour. "As you wish, my Lord."

"Still, Apprentice, I hope you will stay for dinner," Balgruuf told Lia. "You've certainly earned it."

"One more night here won't kill me," she admitted dryly. "But you need to explain that dragon skull. I haven't seen one since-"

Lia's face twisted with anguish and she fell silent. Something had touched an old wound. "S-Since I was a child," the mage finally husked.

Balgruuf gestured to the skull of Numinex above his throne. "He was Numinex the Cruel-Gazed. Nu-miin-nax – Now-Cruel-Eyes, meaning always having a cruel gaze. It is said that his eyes could turn a man into stone."

Lia moved to his side, gazing up at the skull thoughtfully. "Can all Jarls speak Dragonish or just you?"

The Jarl of Whiterun chuckled a little wryly. "Ulfric, Jarl of Windhelm, speaks it best as he was trained as a Greybeard before… leaving to fight in the Great War. I studied for two years at High Hrothgar, so I know a little, but I was never meant to be a Tongue."

"I know exactly one phrase in Dragonish. _'Hin monah gjok raanne.'_ I was a child when I heard it, and none of my family would tell me what it meant."

Balgruuf coughed, imagining Arngeir's vinegary expression on hearing _that_ sort of language. He and Ulfric had relished in insulting each other in Dovahzul during their time in the isolated monastery as lads were wont to. "It is… not a polite phrase. In fact, it involves one's mother and her conduct with… ah… beasts."

"Something along the likes of 'Your mother fucks animals'?" Lia asked blandly, the obscenity tripping off her tongue without a blush in sight.

"Uh… Yeah." _He_ was blushing, of all things. The word obviously didn't bother Lia, so why was he bothered for her?

"You are the most darling man," she murmured in Colovian. "I wish-"

The apprentice shook her head. "So how did it come to adorn your Great Hall, my Jarl?"

"My ancestor, Olaf One-Eye, was a Tongue. Maybe even a Dragonborn. He fought Numinex to a standstill and then trapped him on the Great Porch, keeping him as a pet until the dragon wasted away." _Darling man?_ _I wish-_

Balgruuf would need to have a long talk with Avenicci. Sometimes promising young mages were sponsored by Jarls at the College, to serve in their Courts after they reached a certain level of proficiency. It wasn't cheap, but if he could secure Lia's allegiance, he would have both a talented battlemage and a beautiful woman who thought he was a darling man. He got the feeling she wasn't impressed by him being a Jarl.

"Ah. That sort of thing, he was probably Dragonborn. A Tongue would have to have balls the size of Masser and Secundus to pull that off." Lia chuckled wryly. "Come to think of it, so would a Dragonborn."

"You know the difference?" Balgruuf was impressed. Even in Skyrim, most Nords didn't know the difference between a Tongue, someone who had learned to Shout, and a Dragonborn, who Shouted naturally as they had the dragon-blood.

Lia nodded, face flickering with anguish again. "Ye-es."

"How?" Maybe they had studies on the Thu'um at the College-

Her lovely face went ashen. "I… am descended from the Akaviri Dragonguard," she whispered, looking around fearfully. "Directly. If the Thalmor knew that I'd… have a slow, painful death."

_I am a Blade._ Balgruuf knew his history and remembered Irileth's lessons on how to recognise some of the spy-clans of Tamriel. He couldn't place Lia's clan, but he knew how a Blade tied their belt or sashes and even sheathed their daggers. Lia's silver sword was sheathed on an angle, tied directly to the belt of her robes, which was knotted instead of buckled.

"The Thalmor crucified my father and brother, burning them with witch-fire," he murmured for her ears alone. "I am no friend of theirs, though I do not agree with Ulfric."

Lia sighed in relief. "Thank you, my Jarl-"

"Move away from him right now, Aurelii!" Right on cue, Irileth showed up to ruin the moment. "I'm on to your plan."

"Oh. No." Lia's voice was sarcastic as she rounded on the Dunmer. "My plan. It's discovered."

"I've got my eye on you," Irileth warned.

"Oh no. The dreaded Dunmer has stopped my plan of stealing the Jarl away for my tropical paradise where I will keep him as part of my harem of ridiculously handsome Nords for the rest of my days," Lia continued sardonically.

Balgruuf swung his gaze around the court to gauge his people's reaction. Proventus looked ready to have a fit, Farengar was coughing into his fist, Lydia looked scandalised and Hrongar was openly grinning. "So, you think I'm ridiculously handsome?" he found himself asking.

Lia flashed a smile. "If it wouldn't be politically awkward, my Jarl, I'd be giving you a demonstration of the erotic uses of magery."

"Don't you dare," Irileth said warningly. "The Aurelii women are said to be able to steal a man's heart with a glance and his soul with a smile."

"That's a new one," the mage retorted dryly. "Pity human hearts and souls are only good for Conjuration, which I frown upon."

"Is there room for two in your harem?" Hrongar asked with a grin. "I'm sure two brothers are better than one."

"I, ah, was joking," Lia said hastily. "Dunmer are just so much fun to provoke."

"Damn," Balgruuf murmured. "I was looking forward to doing nothing more than feeding you jazbay grapes and showing the reason why they call me 'the Greater'."

_This_ time it was Lia who went crimson. "Yes please," she said quickly, then looked at the glowering Irileth. "Umm, no. No. I don't want to get killed by your friend."

"For the love of the Divines, Irileth!" Avenicci snapped. "You yourself have said that Balgruuf needs to release tension. Let them have a tumble and Lia can go back on her merry way to Winterhold in the morning."

"Thanks… I think," Lia muttered as Irileth scowled.

"Very well. I will make sure the Aurelii woman remembers her place-"

"Dammit, woman, I am the Jarl of Whiterun! I will drink where I please, speak to whomever I please, and if the lady is willing, bed her whenever I please!" Balgruuf snapped, suddenly frustrated.

"My Jarl, be fair to Irileth." Lia's voice was soft and rueful. "My clan is known for producing courtesan-assassins now and then. Your huscarl is obviously worried for you."

The Dunmer shot a surprised glance at the Bruma Nord and she smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, Irileth. I shouldn't have needled you like that."

"Hmmph." Irileth folded her arms. "I know a courtesan's tattoos when I see one."

Lia's lips pursed as she closed her eyes. "The decision was made when I was sixteen. A few weeks ago, I was travelling to Solitude when the ship I was one capsized in a storm. I was found by two mages from Winterhold and because I had lost everything but had a working knowledge of Illusion spells, I was offered an apprenticeship."

"Hmmph." Irileth's noise was sceptical but sympathetic. "So why try to seduce the Jarl?"

"Pardon me for finding your Jarl attractive!" Lia snapped, finding her spirit again. "Gods above and beyond, I'll never be free of… _this._" She gestured to the tattoos around her wrist helplessly.

"Enough!" Balgruuf's roar startled both women; Irileth winced and Lia flinched, looking ready to fall into an obeisance. From what she'd implied, the mage hadn't been given a choice in becoming a courtesan, though it explained her ability to draw a man closer to her. That shipwreck was surely a blessing in disguise because it let her make her own life away from Cyrodiil.

"I'll take a room in the inn," Lia finally said, her voice raw with… something. Pain? Regret? "It's obvious my presence here is causing trouble."

Before he could command her to stop – after what she'd implied, he had no right to order her – she exited Dragonsreach, leaving everyone stunned.

"…I'm sorry, my Jarl," Irileth apologised. "I was… overzealous."

"Overzealous? We just lost the chance for a talented battlemage to make her own place in the court!" Avenicci snapped. "She's the one who cleared those bounties!"

"I didn't know that, seeing as I was patrolling the eastern border in case Ulfric mounted an attack!" Irileth retorted.

Balgruuf looked towards the door, regretting what most likely forever was lost. All because of her past and his servants meaning well.

…

Lia had sworn to never return to Whiterun. Or at least to Dragonsreach. Not after the humiliation of her past being dragged out by a paranoid Dunmer because she desired a handsome, virile man of wealth and power.

But after Helgen… She pulled her horse to a stop in front of Alvor the Blacksmith's, letting Hadvar dismount painfully. The Praetor was one of the few Nords she knew from her previous life and had promised to keep her presence in Skyrim a secret from General Tullius. Lia didn't need complications, like a General who would want to know why the Emperor's Whore was in the province he was trying to subdue. At best, he'd keep her cooped up with Elisif and use her as a diplomat; at worst, he'd dispatch her back to Cyrodiil, which would piss Titus off and ruin any chance Lia had of making her own mark.

"Stay the night?" Hadvar asked sympathetically. He was a quiet, soft-spoken man with a spine of steel and mercy in the midst of carnage. Hell, even the Stormcloak Ralof had tried to save prisoners.

"Someone needs to tell Balgruuf what's going on. Dragonsreach was a dragon's cage once and it might very well need to be one again."

The Praetor's eyes widened. "Lady, you think further ahead than most. I don't know why the Emperor sent you to Skyrim, but it was obviously a wise decision on his part."

_He sent me to sweet-talk Jarls, not plan to catch dragons!_ But no one anticipated dragons now, did they?

At least her studies, supplemented by correspondence with Farengar, had taught her how to recognise the tombs of dragon cultists. Bleak Falls Barrow overlooked the town and might hold useful information – it was also on the way to Whiterun.

_Unless the big black bastard I fear is the World-Eater himself is roosting up there, all I will have to deal with is bandits and/or draugr and/or hostile mages._ After Fellglow Keep, finding several books for Urag (who seemed intently interested in her for some reason) and consulting the Auger of Dunlain for information about the Eye of Magnus (why the hell did _she_ have to be the one to find that damned thing?), tomb raiding was a damned holiday. Because gods knew with dragons on the loose, she was in no hurry to confront the Synod in Mzulft. Most of the bastards were nobles with ties to the Imperial Court.

"Eight and One with you," she murmured to the legionnaire, who she knew still worshipped Talos.

"And you, Lady Lia," he responded.

It was a short, interesting ride to Bleak Falls Barrow and compared to the Midden or Fellglow Keep, the bandits and draugr were child's play when she could toss a couple fireballs in their direction. Enchanting those fine black boots she'd found at the College with Muffle had literally been a lifesaver, while she either had magicka-regenerating or energy-baffling enchantments on her robes and jewellery (including a gift or two from the Arch-Mage, who'd taken a personal interest in her for some reason) to allow for rapid and frequent spellcasting. Lia's flair for Destruction magics and knowledge of Khajiit ways had landed her and J'zargo into a friendly rivalry not unlike her and Ma'randru-jo during her youth in the caravans.

_I should have brought some of his bloody scrolls with me,_ she thought wryly as she breached the innermost tomb chamber, wondering who owned the golden claw originally. She'd need to read Arvel's journal later.

One tracing of a Word Wall later, she was throwing fireballs at a Shouting draugr like a virgin tossing flowers in the path of the Emperor – with great speed and due diligence. It was literally the luck of the gods she escaped with nothing more than bruises and a broken arm that she was able to heal into a still-usable state. A healing potion and medicinal sling could do the rest, because healing too often, too soon was bad. Very bad. Lia liked being able to be healed.

Predictably, the tomb's exit was at the arse-end of the mountain, but she was able to reinforce the Mage Stone's blessing and use a spell to call her horse back to Riverwood. Lia slowly walked back, hoping that Alduin wasn't setting fire to Whiterun because the Dragonstone she found would be really bloody useful.

It turned out Lucan Valerius owned the claw and was overjoyed to see it, much to Camilla Valeria's eye-rolling, and was happy to trade Lia a few potions as a thank you. Lia drank down one and bound her arm into a clean cloth sling; despite it being dark, she didn't have the luxury of stopping and sleeping.

In later years, she'd never quite remember the ride back to Whiterun beyond one spectacular fireball tossed in the direction of a marauding giant that was harassing some farmers and the Companions. She was drunk on magicka and stamina potions, exhausted and in pain, but it looked like the city was intact.

The last thing Lia recalled was babbling about the dragon to a sceptical Irileth, the patron saint of Dunmer paranoia, before collapsing at Balgruuf's feet. It couldn't be said that Akatosh lacked a sense of humour.

…

Lia woke up, her injured arm being shaken by an impatient Whiterun guard.

"A dragon's attacking the western watchtower," Commander Caius said tersely. "I'm sorry, Apprentice, but-"

"Journeyman," she interrupted groggily. "I'm a Journeyman."

"That was quick," muttered Irileth. The Dunmer tossed a pair of leather bracers at her. "They've been enchanted to reduce the magicka cost of war magic. We are going to need every fireball you can toss."

"Why me?" Lia asked bitterly, now wide awake with a painful migraine.

"Because you're descended from the Akaviri Dragonguard," the huscarl responded mercilessly, albeit softly.

"Fuck you, Irileth." But she was getting up and pulling on her filthy robes. She needed to carry two sets with her…

Lia felt absolutely no guilt about remaining on a high ledge, concealed from the dragon by smoke, as Irileth and the guards closed in or peppered the dragon with arrows. Her fireballs were mostly accurate, though one sailed on past the creature as it flew overhead and maybe smacked a Greybeard in the face at High Hrothgar. Finally it died, screaming _"Dovahkiin? Niid!"_

_Well, dragons _can_ die. _Lia wandered over to examine its carcass as Irileth congratulated her guards with nary a word of praise for the mage who'd barbecued the beast. Then she fell back as the scaled skin cracked, flaking away into bits of flame and light.

_Mirmulnir. Allegiance-Strong-Hunt, the strong loyal hunter._ She recalled Balgruuf's explanation of Numinex's name distantly, memories of flying and the hunt and the fearful love for a liege stronger than fate itself. Mirmulnir's memories mingled with her own, Alduin's ebon visage replaced with the weary, querulous face of Titus Mede, the dragon flying through court on wings of turquoise silk-

_"FUS!" _she roared/Shouted/screamed. The unbearable pressure in her head flowed out through her mouth, driving Irileth and the guards to their knees. Lia gulped for air, unable to catch a full breath, her brain trying to process what just happened.

_"I'm a whore, not a hero!"_ she blurted before running for Whiterun. This had to be a mistake, she was hallucinating as she lay dying, getting eaten by the dragon-

She dashed through Whiterun like a madwoman, shoving anyone and everyone aside. She needed, she needed…

_I'm a whore, not a hero._ And there was one man in this place who could ground her, remind her of her place, maybe even value her skills-

Strong arms caught her on the stairs to Dragonsreach and she fell into them, weeping, as the Greybeards called for her to come on a wave of thunder and challenge.

…

To say that Lia was a wreck would be an understatement. She clung to Balgruuf like moss to a stone, crying into his shoulder that Akatosh had made a mistake, she was a whore, not a hero, that she couldn't be the Dragonborn.

He managed to guide her inside before half of Whiterun came gawking, irrationally pleased that she'd come running for him. "Lia," he murmured, resting his chin on her silky black hair comfortingly. "It's alright."

"No, it isn't-" Those beautiful turquoise eyes looked up at Balgruuf.

"Yes, it is," he reassured her. "Can you Shout?"

"I… Yes."

"Then do so. A few scattered plates are nothing. Prove it to yourself."

Lia took a deep breath and Shouted "Fus!" The wave of force scattered a few pewter plates as the people in the room began to mutter, Farengar emerging excitedly from his workroom.

"Apprentice, was that you? I don't suppose you'd be willing to undergo a few tests-" The mage shut up as Balgruuf glared at him.

"Dragonborn," the Jarl breathed in awe. Lia's face twisted with anguish similar to what she'd displayed during discussion of her heritage.

"Aurelii aren't legends. We just make them," she responded starkly. "…My Jarl. I'm scared."

"Me too, Lia, me too…" Balgruuf admitted with a sigh, resting his forehead against hers. "but it will be alright."

…

It took another day of sleep and healing before Lia was willing to confront the truth staring her in the face. She was Dragonborn, the first since Martin Septim, the one destined to confront Alduin at the end of days. Balgruuf had been sympathetic but unflinching, supporting her on one hand but forcing her to confront her doom on the other.

Now clad in a fine dress and fur-trimmed brocade coat apparently once belonged to either Balgruuf's mother or late wife, she stood on the Great Porch and looked up at the outline of the fortress the Jarl told her was High Hrothgar. It was almost close to normal: fine fabrics, her hair dressed properly, her face painted neatly and waiting for a powerful man to join her. Perhaps if Balgruuf had been the man chosen for her…

_You started on this path when you chose to join the College instead of making your way to Solitude as the Emperor commanded,_ her conscience pointed out. _Titus Mede is old. Someone will need to look out for Martin's interests. It might as well be you._

"Dragonborn?" Since her Shout had cemented her status as the Last, Balgruuf had become… not quite formal but reverential bordering on awe. It was frustrating as she wanted to ground herself by making love to a handsome man who seemed to genuinely respect her.

"Yes, my Jarl?" She'd kept that up mostly because he got this little gleam in his eye. It was possessive, but more in the sense of "I want your loyalty for me and my Hold" and not "I am entitled to your loyalty for me and my Hold."

"I'm making you Thane," Balgruuf responded softly, coming up to her. "You've more than earned it. Whiterun is in your debt."

"Irileth and the guards deserve more recognition. I just stood on a ledge and threw fireballs through a veil of smoke," Lia confessed.

Balgruuf's eyes crinkled as he smiled wryly. "The reason Avenicci was urging you to buy a house here is because in order to become a Thane, you must own property and be known to my people. Vignar Grey-Mane and Olfrid Battle-Born are my Thanes, but their political allegiances are causing trouble in my court. As a presumably neutral party-"

"My allegiance is to the Empire," Lia interrupted warningly. "Ulfric has his points, but he also started this mess by killing Torygg."

"You understand my difficulty in choosing a side then." Balgruuf leaned against the stone balcony wall, looking up at High Hrothgar. "You trusted me with your secret, so I will share one: I still worship Talos."

"Most Nords do," she pointed out wryly. "The Emperor specifically forbade the _public_ veneration and worship of Talos. Until Ulfric started making noise, private worship wasn't investigated very hard by anyone but Thalmor Justicars, and the Legion only tended to cooperate with them if the worshippers were… ah… trouble."

"And now?"

Lia's gaze was bleak. "If I were a Nord, I would be getting the hell out of Cyrodiil."

Balgruuf growled in anger. "We are the First Men and we shall be the Last. Kynareth gave _us_ the ability to Shout; even the least of Nords can use the Grah Graat, the Battle Cry, to send their enemies fleeing in fear."

"Which is why the Thalmor want you-"

"Us. You are a Nord, Lia. Your height and Voice prove it."

"Want… _us_… dead," she finished. Most days she didn't feel very Nord. Mostly Imperial with a dash of old Akaviri traditions and a side of Khajiit.

"Well, we will survive their efforts." Balgruuf smiled at her, nostrils flaring. "Where did you get that scent?"

"…Scent?" Lia regarded him oddly. "I used plain lye soap…"

"Nonsense, woman! You smell sweet and spicy like the brown dust my mother would have put on the cookies."

"Really, that's news to me. If I use a scent, it's mostly sandalwood and ambergris…" Both of which would be a nightmare to get in Skyrim. And it had been mostly Titus' preference she used those scents.

"Maybe I am imagining things," Balgruuf responded, his rich voice thick with regret. "Forgive me, Dragonborn-"

"If you bloody call me that one more bloody time, I will run screaming from this porch!" Lia snapped. "There's shit going down at the College and now I'm responsible for the bloody fate of the world too? I'm beginning to wonder if Akatosh _wants_ the world to end!"

"A woman who can toss fireballs with the accuracy of a Khajiit knife-thrower? I can think of worse choices," Balgruuf countered, growling a little in obvious frustration. "Even Irileth speaks well of your skill as a battlemage."

"…Oh." It was… strange. To be respected, to be valued, for something other than her ornamental and sexual value. Lia recalled the day she told Titus she could do a better job than the Imperial Ambassador to Skyrim. Was this what she'd been aiming for?

"If you prefer, I will call you Thane," he told her.

"Call me Lia," she breathed. This close, she could smell his unique tundra fragrance and was tempted to ask what scent _he _used.

"Only if you call me Balgruuf."

"Yes, my Jarl…"

They moved simultaneously, lips touching, tongues tentative. Mead didn't taste so bad when it was on his lips. Lia felt something settle in her, like a sea anchor in a storm, as she took refuge in something familiar. _Powerful. Wealthy._ These were things she was conditioned to respond to; even her uncle didn't know the depths of a Companion's training. _Handsome. Gentle._ These were things she could respond to of her own accord.

"I know you can't stay," Balgruuf observed as they drew apart. "But please consider buying a home in Whiterun. I want you to have a place of your own here."

"I've never had a place of my own," Lia confessed softly. It was how Avenicci, knowing how many women were raised in traditional Imperial families, tempted her. The man was nearly as empathetic as she.

"I'll have Avenicci give you a discount," Balgruuf coaxed.

"You're horrible," she told him.

"You just figure that out now?" He caught her right hand, the tattooed one, and brought it to his lips. "There is a woman in Riften named Galathil, a 'face sculptor'. If these tattoos bother you so much, remove them."

_To deface the Emperor's mark is treason,_ she reminded herself. She wondered how much Balgruuf knew; he was smart, shrewd and cosmopolitan enough to give a Count of Cyrodiil a run for their money.

"I'll… think about it." Riften was on the Stormcloak side of the country, but far more populated than Winterhold, where Korir huddled inside his longhouse and cursed the College which was the only thing keeping his shithole alive.

"Please do." Balgruuf smiled dryly. "It would be awkward to explain some Imperial bastard claiming you're his property getting Shouted off the Great Porch."

"I… wouldn't do that." _It's treason!_

"Damn."

"My Jarl?" Irileth called from the doorway. "It's time for the ceremony."

Balgruuf kissed her knuckles gently and released her hand, leaving Lia reaching for his face instinctively. It was ridiculous how quick everything was going. On one hand she had the Thalmor causing trouble with the Eye of Magnus; on the other Alduin's wings darkened the sky and she had to kill the beast to save the world.

And now she was confronted with a man who seemed to be everything she could ever want too.

_I think a few weeks away from here will be a good thing,_ she thought as Balgruuf smiled at her, the expression warm and genuine. _Because I need to do a lot of thinking… and deciding._


	2. Chapter 2

Note: On a roll with these. Instead of a blow-by-blow story like Crown and Heroes, this story is more a collection of short stories. Playing with the description of the Staff of Magnus for story purposes.

…

Paratus Decimus reeled from the slap delivered by Lia after he accused the College mages of lying to the Synod about the magical places of Skyrim. She was heartsick, exhausted and still reeling from the events in Whiterun; the perilous journey through Mzulft only made things worse. Having some damn fool try to play politics in the Dwemer ruins was _not_ what she needed to deal with today. Not when the Eye was… behaving.

She turned on the stunned mage without a further word and left him alone in that chamber. Let him try to return to Cyrodiil with no knowledge of wilderness survival or means of transport. He likely didn't recognise her, but she recalled his name only for the irony of a notoriously disorganised mage named for the virtue of preparedness.

_I'm sure there was some genuine need for his project, though it would have been better focused on the Summerset Isles, not Skyrim,_ the mage thought grimly as she left the ruins by what had to be the back exit. A quick use of Illusion called her horse, the sturdy bay stallion remarkably calm despite galloping over stone and thin grassy knolls. She patted him, reminding herself to name the steed, and mounted with a backward glance at the omnipresent shadow of the Throat of the World to the west. Contacting the Greybeards was… imperative. But the Eye of Magnus was… behaving.

_Alduin seems to be taking his sweet time eating the world, _Lia thought grimly as she nudged her horse into a canter. _The Eye seems to be a lot more proactive._

…

"_THALMOR SON OF A BITCH!"_

Lia hacked down the last magical anomaly not with a fireball but her silver sword, much to Faralda's weary sigh. But she'd run out of magicka during the fight and no one had found a way to break soul gems for a quick recharge. Plus she was still nursing injuries from Mzulft, the broken arm from Bleak Falls Barrow was aching like hell and that headache of hers had to be potion-hangover for the fifth time in three weeks.

Mirabelle Ervine emerged from the College, panting heavily; the normally sedentary Master Wizard wasn't used to such exertion, whereas Lia and J'zargo kept themselves in good physical shape. "Lia!" the Breton woman called, thrusting an iron torc at her. "Ancano's out of control. You need to get the Staff of Magnus _now._"

Dimly, Lia recalled the quick conversation she, Savos and Mirabelle had before trying to break through Ancano's wards. "If you haven't fucking noticed, I'm injured here!" the younger mage snapped.

"Take J'zargo with you," Mirabelle responded mercilessly. "Lia… There's no one else but you. It's all the instructors can do to contain Ancano for now."

"Fuck me…" Lia sheathed her silver sword, glancing at Arniel. "Gane, make yourself useful and rouse Kai Wet-Pommel. Get him to evacuate the town back to Whistling Mine. Take Onmund and Brelyna with you."

"But what about my research?" the Breton mage whined. "I can't let Ancano get his hands on it!"

"If you have somehow failed to notice, Ancano is a little too busy trying to end the world at the moment to give a fuck about a few dwemer cogs and a warped soul gem," Lia snarled in reply. "I'd send Faralda, but a) Kai will react poorly to her as she's Altmer and b) I want our best Destruction mage to stand watch over Winterhold."

J'zargo emerged from the gate of the bridge to the College, two travelling packs slung over his shoulders. "This one looks forward to seeing how you use battlemagic," he purred in Khajiit, handing Lia a pack.

"Good luck with that," Lia retorted dryly, chewing some dried blue mountain flower to deal with her headache. She hated being the one relied upon by everyone at the College, but she couldn't stand by and let the world end.

"The staff is likely in Labyrinthian," Mirabelle informed them. "I don't know how Savos knew, but…"

"We'll sort this out," Lia promised. "And then when Ancano's head is on a pike, you won't believe the news I have to share with you."

Mirabelle's gaze was bleak as she regarded Lia. "After today, I don't think anything could surprise me, Journeyman."

…

It seemed that fate had a warped sense of humour. Lia picked up the Staff of Magnus from Morokei's withered corpse along with his mask, which she tossed to J'zargo. On the ride to Labyrinthian, she and the Khajiit mostly slept in the saddle with the ease of practice, spell-alarms set if they encountered any trouble. A dragon, cream-white, had flown over them and roosted in a nearby eyrie she had no intention of getting close to yet. Maybe he was smart and not interested in joining Mirmulnir.

It was awkward to explain the Shout she used to push one of the enthralled wizards off his porch to break his neck against unforgiving stone at the bottom. In the end she temporised, telling him she'd used the Battle Cry to scare the mage, and J'zargo appeared to accept it. She could read the Khajiit better than he could she.

A little shorter than her in height, the Staff of Magnus was capped with an orb of silvery-blue crystal at the butt and crowned with a slender katana-like blade of cloudy blue-white… ice-metal at the top. Lightning crackled along its silvery length and Lia could feel the magicka thrumming beneath her hands.

"An excellent weapon," J'zargo noted. "May I have it?"

"Fuck off, you've got the mask," she snapped in reply. The Staff might bring up some truly hellish memories from Cloud Ruler, but she wasn't going to flinch from it when the world was on the line.

They were leaving when a trio of Altmer, clad in the robes of Justicars, barred their way. "It's nothing personal," said the leader. "But we cannot allow you to stop Ancano putting the world out of its-"

J'zargo, who was no mean Destruction mage himself, exploded the elf's head with a firebolt. Lia, who knew a little of fighting with a staff from the exercises Tolfdir gave the students to make sure they didn't get flabby, swept the orb-end under another mer's feet and then impaled him with the blade as electricity flowed through his golden body to turn him into something resembling cooked meat.

The final Thalmor blanched pasty yellow and backed away. "Blade!" he snarled.

Lia smiled mirthlessly. "Not all of us died at Cloud Ruler, Thalmor."

"You won't stop Ancano!" Lighting crackled around his hands as he launched a spell.

It hit Lia, the shock forcing her to drop the Staff. Drained of magicka, J'zargo leapt at the elf, claws extended and teeth bared. Altmer were rarely trained to deal with brute force, especially from mages, so the Khajiit was able to carve great scarlet furrows in that golden flesh easily. If she wasn't so busy being electrocuted to death, Lia would have cheered.

The Thalmor died before he could finish Lia, but she was unable to do more than blink helplessly, paralysed from contracted muscles. Her body, sick of the mistreatment it had undergone these past few weeks, shut down and drove her into darkness. All she could do was hope she woke up…

…

It smelt like medicinal herbs and water.

Lia opened her eyes to find Danica Pure-Spring's gentle face staring down at her. "Dragonborn," the priestess murmured, brushing her brow gently. "How are you feeling?"

"…Alive?" Lia hazarded. In fact she felt wholly healed, leading her to wonder how much magicka Danica had expended.

"Given I used the last of the Gildergreen sap on you, I should hope so," Danica observed dryly as she helped Lia to sit up.

"Wait… You used… the stuff from the dead tree outside to heal me?" Lia asked.

"You are the Dragonborn. It was worth it." Danica paused significantly and added, "Though I would be grateful if you could find a way to restore the tree. I know of one – cutting the Eldergleam Tree with a cursed blade known as Nettlebane to get some sap – but it is… questionable."

Lia nodded, sighing inwardly. If the tree sap could heal like that, it would be greatly needed with dragons flying around. "We've got a situation in Winterhold, but once it's resolved, I'll look into it," she responded.

"Thank you, Dragonborn." Danica handed Lia a set of plain monk's robes. "These are the best we can do until Farengar enchants you a new set of robes," she said apologetically. "The Jarl wants to speak to you."

_The world's ending and Balgruuf wants to kiss me. Go figure._ Truth be told, Lia wouldn't mind that much if he did. She still recalled their kiss at odd and usually inappropriate times.

"I know this probably isn't the right time to ask, but how to do you manage to keep that spicy scent to your skin?" Danica asked as they exited the private sleeping quarters of the Temple. Couldn't have the Dragonborn on a stone bed now…

"It's a magical thing," Lia answered curtly. Gods above, the next person to tell her she smelt like cookies and sweet rolls…

"Oh, I understand." Danica sounded a little offended, going to tend a sick farmer with a huff. Pureblood Nords got offended at the littlest of things even as they asked the rudest questions.

Balgruuf was just outside, accompanied by Irileth and a dark-haired woman who bore a strong resemblance to Dagny. "What the hell is going on in Winterhold?" he demanded. "Your cat friend refused to tell us anything!"

"I don't have time for a quick explanation," Lia responded bluntly. "There's a Thalmor fanatic who's got his hands on a powerful artefact. As the only two mages who could be spared, J'zargo and I were sent to get the one thing which can shut him down permanently."

Mentioning the Eye of Magnus and the Psijic Order would likely be too exotic for him.

"You're not telling us everything," Irileth accused.

"No, I'm not. A) It's none of your fucking business and b) it involves advanced magical theory and a working knowledge of Atmoran artefacts," Lia retorted dryly.

"Enough, both of you." Balgruuf gestured to the dark-haired woman, who was armoured in solid steel with a fine sword at her hip and a Whiterun shield on her arm. "This is Lydia, your huscarl. You left before you could meet her."

"It's an honour to meet you, Thane," the warrior greeted with a slight bow.

"And you too, Lydia." Lia sighed, rubbing her nose. "Alright, we're going into a situation where we can use some muscle. I won't lie: the stakes are pretty damned dire."

"What do you mean by 'dire'?" Balgruuf asked softly.

"'Dire' as in 'the end of the world'," Lia told him bluntly. "That's why I haven't gone to High Hrothgar, because this Ancano bastard is a little more proactive than Alduin."

"Heh. We have our choice of apocalypses." Balgruuf actually chuckled dryly, much to Lia's amazement. Did he just crack a joke about the end of the world?

"I can't stay-" She began to apologise, only to find herself silenced by his hand on her lips.

"I would be a poor Jarl to put myself ahead of the world," he replied softly. "Just remember you promised to buy a house here."

"How can I forget when you're nagging me every time I'm here?" she asked, managing to laugh.

Balgruuf smiled as Irileth sighed and Lydia looked curious. "Talos guide you, Dragonborn."

…

It was several weeks before Lia returned to Whiterun, her Khajiit friend and Lydia in tow. Balgruuf barely stifled his gasp on seeing Lia wielding an ornate blade-staff that fair crackled with lightning. "We won," she told him succinctly in his study, away from the prying eyes of gossips.

"Obviously. The world is still here," he drawled in answer, delighting in the amused gleam of her turquoise eyes.

There a few good reasons to have the Dragonborn as Thane of Whiterun. Lia was loyal to the Empire but sympathised with Talos worshippers. She was a talented battlemage. She was the Dragonborn, descended from Akaviri warriors. She was beautiful and had given of herself constantly to protect Whiterun. She found him attractive and had been honest about it.

"Tolfdir is Arch-Mage and Enthir Master Wizard," Lia continued, fingers tracing the length of her weapon absently. "They offered me the job, but… well… I obviously have bigger things on my mind."

"You'd make a wonderful Arch-Mage," Balgruuf told her in all sincerity.

"I would be too high profile for my comfort," the mage responded grimly. "I… was a ranking courtesan in the Imperial Court. If it became known I was Dragonborn… Well, we'd be dragged into the Civil War whether we liked it or not."

_She is thinking 'we',_ Balgruuf thought with pleasure as he poured Lia a measure of Colovian brandy. After the past few weeks she'd had, he figured she needed it. "Have you been to High Hrothgar?"

Lia nodded with a sigh. "That was… interesting. They know Akaviri blood and have a certain animosity with the Blades over how the Dragonborn should be advised. I have to go to a place called Ustengrav to retrieve the Horn of Yurgen Windcaller before I am… officially declared Dragonborn, it seems."

"I know where that is." Balgruuf drew out the map he kept in his study, pointing out a small mark near Morthal. "You should speak to my kinswoman Idgrod, Jarl of Morthal. She has a seer's gift."

Lia's jaw set mulishly. "I've enough issues with prophecies and portents," she responded flatly. "Half the time, I had the fucking Psijic Order telling me what to do and at the end of it all, they told me they intended me to become Arch-Mage!"

"And now the Greybeards send you to the Tomb of the Windcaller," Balgruuf murmured sympathetically. "My dear, it is tradition they do so. Wulfharth and Talos walked in your shoes."

"Neither of them had Alduin darkening the skies," Lia countered. "But… I need their help since the Blades are more or less dead."

She looked so strained, so weary. Balgruuf wondered what sorrows lay in her past to put the shadows in her gaze whenever the conversation turned bleak. "You will prevail," he told her softly. "And when it is done, you will come home to Whiterun."

"I haven't bought that house yet," she said challengingly.

"I'd give it to you, but I think you wouldn't be happy with the gift," Balgruuf answered with a smile.

"In Cyrodiil, I was given a lot of things: jewellery and silks, mostly…" Lia's fingers continued to rub at the staff she kept close to hand. "But it was to adorn me for my lord and master, so that he could display his wealth and power. You gave me items I could _use_ and you would give me a place of my own."

Balgruuf's hand closed over the fingers on the staff. "I won't lie and say it's entirely altruistic," he admitted softly. "I _want_ you to have roots in Whiterun. I _want_ you to consider my city home. Not just because you are Dragonborn or even a talented battlemage. Not just because your Thu'um may be the only defence my city has against Tullius and Ulfric. Not even just because you are a beautiful woman who caught my eye that night in the Bannered Mare."

"Then why?" she asked, eyes glinting.

"Because every time I have asked for help, you were there to aid me and my city," he told her starkly. "You could have ridden away and never returned after Irileth and you fought. You didn't have to return after Helgen. But you did."

"I'm a lot of things," she murmured. "But… I have seen the devastation a dragon can leave. I've… lived through the horror and aftermath of war. I can't stand by and see other people endure those things."

"You have a heart as big as the plains of Whiterun," he responded gently. This close, he could smell the spiciness of her skin, a cinnamon-and-anise fragrance that made him want to bury his nose in the curve of her neck and inhale. Perhaps this had all begun with her trying to seduce him (though she'd been adorably awkward when they met) but now Balgruuf was making an active effort to win her affection, both for him and Whiterun.

"Have no illusions about me," Lia told him sadly. "I was… trained… to respond to displays of wealth and power. Most of the men who can afford a Companion of Cyrodiil are middle-aged at best; mine was… ancient. My initial attraction to you was based primarily on you being a Jarl who was… actually virile."

Balgruuf's hand tightened around hers in anger. Irileth had been right… and wrong. He didn't know how a woman could be trained to find the trappings of power and riches attractive… and he didn't want to think about it. "You will remove that bastard's mark from your hand," he growled possessively. "You don't belong to some Imperial who can't win his own woman, only pay for her!"

Lia withdrew her hand from his after some tugging and for the first time, pulled back the gloves she wore. On the back of her hand was the Imperial dragon emblazoned amidst designs Balgruuf recognised as Akaviri. "My clan, the Aurelii, were once Blades," she explained bleakly. "We were almost destroyed in the Great War. My uncle sacrificed his hope of Heaven's Reach Temple – the Blades' version of Sovngarde – to buy us a safe haven and I… was given as a surety, a sealing of a bargain."

"It is treason to remove the Emperor's mark," Balgruuf rasped through gritted teeth.

"Indeed. To the best of my knowledge, I think Titus believes I'm dead. I… hope so. Our end of the bargain has been fulfilled." Lia tugged on her glove again with a sad smile.

"Bargain?"

The Dragonborn paused consideringly before speaking. "I have a son with the Emperor. He's… a Bruma Nord."

"And Mede's only heir," Balgruuf finished.

Lia's slow nod confirmed it. "I was originally sent here as a test. You've met General Tullius, I assume?"

"Yeah." Balgruuf could barely tolerate the cantankerous tactless bastard.

"You'll agree he's not a diplomat, whereas I… well. I know more of Nord ways than Gracchus did."

"A dog would know more of our ways," Balgruuf grated, recalling the Ambassador who pushed Ulfric into killing Torygg.

"The shipwreck was sent by Ancano and friends at the College of Winterhold. I joined the College to find out who tried to kill me first – the Dominion wins if the Civil War is protracted." Lia chuckled weakly, shaking her head. "I never expected that my father's Ra Gada blood would give me such an affinity for battle magic."

"And so you became Dragonborn." Balgruuf didn't know how to react to Lia's revelations. On one hand, he couldn't fault her for silence in the presence of a neutral Jarl; on the other, he was falling in love with the complex, heartbroken woman who never had anything to call her own. She'd never lied, but she'd never told the whole truth either.

"If it becomes known that the Emperor's Whore is Dragonborn, Oblivion will break loose," Lia confirmed. "I will have Tullius trying to conscript me, the Thalmor trying to murder me, and Ulfric trying to convert me."

"And Alduin is the greater threat," Balgruuf agreed grimly. "I'd almost reached a decision – to join with General Tullius. But now I will have to remain neutral because sooner or later, you will have to go to the Stormcloak side of Skyrim in earnest, and that neutrality may be the only thing which keeps you unharmed and free."

Lia nodded, smiling weakly. "I trust your political analysis better than mine," she told him. "I hope… you don't pay for it."

"As do I," he agreed fervently. "As do I."

…

"_You smell like cinnamon and anise."_

_ Balgruuf's beaky nose was buried in her hair, erection prodding at her backside as his hands reached around to cup her breasts gently. Lia wasn't sure how she'd wound up naked with him on the Great Porch, the moons shining against the rainbow of Kyne's Veil overheard, but it felt good to have something long and strong against her back. She wondered if the Greybeards could see her down here and figured she ought to put on a show for the poor old celibate farts-_

"My Thane?"

Lydia, omnipresent in Whiterun, jerked her out of a pleasant fantasy. Imagination was a key talent of both courtesans and mages, her mind the one place she could safely indulge herself. With a volatile political situation and the end of the world breathing down her neck, she couldn't devote as much time as she'd like to make a home in Whiterun.

"Yes?" Lia asked, turning to face the huscarl.

The dark-haired beauty leaned against the balcony wall, looking up at High Hrothgar. "My uncle has been invited to a party at the Thalmor Embassy in two weeks. With everything going on, if he refuses…"

"The Legion will march on Whiterun," Lia finished.

"Yes, but I'm worried that if he goes…"

"Ulfric will attack the city."

"Exactly." Lydia squared her shoulders, looking at the smaller Bruma Nord firmly. "I love my uncle and I love Whiterun. But I'm sworn to protect you."

Lia called a small fireball to her hand, the orange orb hovering in the hollow of her palm. "I have my magic and the Thu'um. Worry about Balgruuf first."

The huscarl set her jaw stubbornly. "With all due respect, if you die, the world dies. My uncle commanded me to save you first."

"No pressure," Lia muttered, wondering exactly what the hell Lydia's point was.

Lydia snorted, sounding like her kinsmen. Lia was dying to know her story but wasn't sure how to broach it – she didn't know how Nords regarded noble bastards, though Balgruuf had obviously found an honoured place for his brother's child. "My father was Istgeir," she added. "Balgruuf's older brother."

"The one who was… killed by the Thalmor?"

"Yes." Lydia smiled darkly at Lia's surprised look. "You're not the only one who can read people, my Thane, though you're a lot more tactful than most Imperials."

"Not all of us are Tullius or Gracchus." Lia decided to be blunt. "What's the point to this, Lydia?"

"We need to make it known the Dragonborn is a Thane of Whiterun," the huscarl replied with equal bluntness. "Ulfric respects our traditions and it should make Tullius back off enough to buy us some breathing space."

_Balgruuf hasn't briefed her on my particular situation._ "I was dispatched here as an Imperial diplomatic envoy," Lia explained, sticking to the bare facts of the matter. "I wound up in the College because my documentation is at the bottom of the sea. I don't know how good Ulfric's spies are, but I do know that Gaius Maro the Elder, Commander of the Penitus Oculatus, _is_ in Skyrim. His spies are lousy compared to Aurelii, but they're competent enough to have my identity in two or three days. Me as Dragonborn…? That would start a political shockwave which would be felt back all the way to the Imperial City itself."

"I don't care about Imperial politics-"

"I have a son who is back in Cyrodiil with no protection," Lia said through gritted teeth. "I will _not_ see him needlessly endangered."

"Who the hell are you?" Lydia demanded. "My uncle has given you his trust and you haven't repaid it in kind-"

"I know who she is," Balgruuf interrupted softly. "I know _what_ she is."

Lia spun around to face the Jarl of Whiterun, who was accompanied by Praetor Hadvar… and a hard-eyed, dark-haired woman in officer's armour. "I promised not to tell General Tullius," the Praetor admitted mildly. "I said nothing about my superior Legate Rikke."

"Dragonborn." The Legate, Tullius' direct second in Skyrim, saluted respectfully.

"Legate," Lia responded, teeth still gritted.

"By the Nine, you really look like your mother when you make that expression," Rikke observed calmly.

"My mother was seven feet tall with too-long arms, a protruding underbite and a snout," Lia said flatly. "I like to think I'm a little more presentable than her."

"Well, the Redguard is definitely stronger than the Norc in you," Rikke continued, voice bland as oatmeal.

Lia knew what a Norc was: an inhabitant of Half-Moon Hold in the northeast in the mountains that bordered Whiterun and Eastmarch Holds. Urag at the College was one, a scholar who removed himself from the competitive stronghold to pursue knowledge and a long lifespan. She'd noted the aqua of his eyes but failed to compare them to her own – and after Cloud Ruler, she couldn't tell a person what her mother looked like beyond her uncle Irkand's terse description.

But it… explained why the woman had been so fucking ugly.

"If you want me to explode, I'm not going to oblige you," she said tartly, settling for glaring at the trio.

_"Zu'u lorot hin nebenfiit los qiib," _Balgruuf murmured. He'd told her that at the monastery, all initiates were required to speak Dovahzul, a fact Arngeir had frostily confirmed.

_I think your underbite is adorable,_ she translated. _Bastard. I hate how he does that._

"I don't have an underbite," she said airily.

"You do. Complete with cute little fangs." Balgruuf was grinning at her, daring her to explode.

She bared her teeth at him instead as Mirmulnir had to lesser dovah, warning them to shut up or be eaten.

"No one can doubt your courage," Rikke told the Jarl dryly.

"Dragonborn, huh? Which one was the dragon – your ma or your pa?" Hadvar asked Lia.

"I hate you all," she muttered. "Is there a reason for ganging up on me?"

"Yes," Rikke admitted bluntly. "What do you know about the story of Talos? I mean, before he came to Cyrodiil."

"He won the battle of Old Hroldan, was announced as Dragonborn by the Greybeards – presumably after going grave-robbing at Ustengrav – and-"

"You haven't gotten to that bit, obviously." Rikke folded her arms. "When the Greybeards formally greet you as Dragonborn, all of Skyrim will hear it. They will even hear it in Bruma."

"Why the fuck would they do that?" Lia said bewilderingly.

"It's part of… being Nord. You are Ysmir, the Dragon of the North. Even Ulfric will give you the utmost reverence," Hadvar explained.

"And the Thalmor will hunt me down and probably slaughter my son," Lia retorted.

"Martin Mede has been moved to a secure location pending the Emperor's arrival in Skyrim," Rikke told her gently. "Aurelia Too-Tall is dead, lost in the Winter War. But Aurelia Dragon-Born will need to consider what she does next once the Greybeards greet her."

"Talos have mercy on us all," Lydia, forgotten, breathed as the fullness of the Imperial political situation dawned on her.

"Does Titus know?"

"I don't know." Rikke shrugged. "He's not due in Skyrim for two months. I hope that helps you some."

"I need to get to Ustengrav," Lia decided grimly. "I've… got a lot to think about."

"I'm going as far as Morthal," Balgruuf added. "I need to speak to Idgrod."

"Why the hell weren't you made Dragonborn?" Lia asked of the Jarl. "You're related to half of these people, you're a moderate so both sides will love you, and you're a bloody Jarl!"

"Because I would likely focus on the Civil War, something Alduin would use to his advantage," Balgruuf responded gently. "Remember, my Lia, it is part of the prophecy of the Dragonborn, that brother would wage war against brother."

Lia swore. She couldn't help it. "I have two months to finish Alduin," she said bluntly. "Because if I'm not ready to handle this Civil War by the time Titus arrives…"

She sagged, overwhelmed by the responsibilities thrust on her shoulders. "Civil war will erupt in Cyrodiil, not just Skyrim."

Rikke and Hadvar exchanged thoughtful looks that she missed. "I guess you'll be acquainted with your horse more than you'd like then," the Legate observed with dry Nord humour. "Good luck, Dragonborn."

_I'll need it,_ Lia thought despairingly. _Talos wept, I'm going to need it._


	3. Chapter 3

Note: Having a touch of a break from Heroes because the next few chapters will be one giant clusterfuck. Triggers for implied child torture and murder. Yay Team Thalmor! (That was sarcasm, by the way). Playing with A Blade in the Dark and Diplomatic Immunity because I can see Delphine holding onto the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller until Lia jumps through her hoops.

…

_You know that moment when you have to smile at the woman who crucified six children just because they were Blades-blood? I fucking hate that moment. Fucking Delphine!_

Lia pasted on a smile and gushed appropriately at Elenwen, wife of the infamous Nurancar, the Butcher of Bruma, as the Thalmor Inquisitor (stealth Justicar with a penchant for poor taste in makeup) enquired as to her presence at the party. Coarse accents, rougher garments and cruder jokes aside, this little soiree was no different to any of the festivities held by the goldskins in Cyrodiil; Balgruuf and Lydia, plus an ancient woman that was supposedly Idgrod, the Jarl of Morthal, looked like they'd sooner go to Oblivion. Everyone else was having a grand old time.

She'd arrived separately from her Jarl, pissed at Delphine for putting her through this shit just so she could get the Horn for the Greybeards. Arngeir was frosty because of Lia's Akaviri ancestry, written in the slant of her eyes, but Delphine was downright odious in trying to manipulate the Dragonborn. The Second Blade apparently didn't realise that while Lia recalled nothing of Cloud Ruler Temple's fall, Irkand Aurelius and Dar'saad (now Ri'saad the caravan leader) hadn't pulled any punches in telling her about what went wrong. Northstar and Martin Julius Aurelius had to be spinning in their graves.

At least Malborn had snuck in her sneak-suit, a set of cheap miner's garments enchanted for maximum stealth and magicka reduction, and a set of disposable silver jewellery enchanted to reduce her spell-cost for Illusion and Destruction magics. Because a wise Aurelii never relied on one weapon, Lia also had a pair of steel daggers and six vials of frostbite venom, four of magicka, three invisibility potions and two stamina ones. All easily acquired, personally enchanted, and equally disposable.

_"If you must infiltrate somewhere, never be so attached to possessions that they cannot be left behind,"_ Ri'saad had taught the kits in the camps. _"You can always steal more."_

The only piece of jewellery Lia had clung to was the emerald and silver ring given to her by her uncle Irkand; dual enchanted for luck and waterbreathing, it was her lucky charm, the one thing which allowed her to survive the wreck of the Winter War. But… if worst came to worst, she would abandon it too.

She pretended not to know Balgruuf and prayed he'd have the wit to do so with her. Elenwen was skilled at reading body language, and if there was one thing Lia wanted to do with all of this, it was to keep her Jarl out of the inevitable shitstorm.

Thankfully, a drunk allowed Lia to escape into the kitchen, Malborn locking the door behind her so he wouldn't be missed. Nords thought they had it bad? They had nothing on what the poor Bosmer were going through.

Lia drank one of her Invisibility potions, wishing to reserve her magicka for the fight that would ensue when the Thalmor realised they were being infiltrated, and snuck past a pair of idly gossiping soldiers. No matter the race, creed or kingdom, grunts all sounded the same, though it was rare to hear complaints about food, uppity wizards and Elenwen in haughty Altmer accents. She reached the door to the courtyard without incident, picking it with bits of metal and a dagger where a mage might typically use a spell.

_"Never rely on one method. Never become known for one method. Only the proud and the tired-of-living leave a calling card by which they can be tracked. The true professional _never_ has a trademark."_ Wise advice from a wise old cat. It had been good to see Ri'saad and Ma'randru-jo again.

The Thalmor wizard at the door was turning when it was opened; Lia drove the lockpick through the soft, uncovered golden flesh of his throat. He collapsed without a sound and she downed the second of her invisibility potions. So far, so good.

She was detected within three steps of the door to Elenwen's solar, the potion not as powerful as she'd been led to believe. She was going to fucking murder the fence who rorted her, that was for certain. With four Thalmor guards, two of them wizards, bearing down on her, she was forced to resort to her recently acquired Blizzard spell.

Just thank the Divines that a) it was snowy up here and b) she'd managed to pick up the knack for casting silently. The resulting Blizzard wiped out every Thalmor in the courtyard and only Lia's Nord blood kept her from being frozen solid.

Secretly, silently, she let herself in knowing that she was working on borrowed time.

…

Lia was a stranger to him. Given what he knew of her past, Balgruuf was surprised she was here at the Thalmor party, and supposed that she was on some information-seeking mission. The Thalmor held ancient knowledge and would likely be very interested in anything to do with the dragons.

So Balgruuf pretended not to know her. News hadn't gotten out yet about the identity of the Dragonborn, and when pointed enquiries were sent his way, Balgruuf had told them – legitimately – that the Dragonborn was learning from the Greybeards at High Hrothgar. A wise thing, because when the drunk began to be insulting – but unconsciously accurate – about Elenwen, Lia was nowhere to be found.

The party went on after the drunk was hauled out, Idgrod's eyes gleaming knowingly. "Terrible weather outside," she said loud enough for everyone to hear. "There's a blizzard coming."

Just on cue, one of the Bosmer servants staggered inside, covered in frost. "Milady!" he cried out to Elenwen. "Some big blizzard came out of nowhere and killed all the guards in the courtyard."

"What?" Elenwen snapped. "Blizzards don't come from nowhere unless-"

"How long have you been in Skyrim?" Balgruuf asked, interrupting her. He had to do this for Lia, for the Dragonborn. He prayed that Dibella would gild his tongue enough.

"I-A year," Elenwen answered sharply.

"If you had thought to ask any of the Nords, we could have told you Ysmir's Breath was coming through tonight," he told her, keeping his voice polite. One wrong word, one wrong move, and he would die, his family would be slaughtered, and Whiterun reduced to a smoking ruin.

"I _thought_ it was a bit chilly for autumn," Elisif, an easily suggestible girl, murmured. "Torygg told me that Ysmir's Breath, the Atmoran Wind, can freeze a deer solid. Your poor guards, Lady Elenwen."

The Ambassador glowered darkly for a moment before pasting on a smile. "Forgive me, but I will need to leave. As you said, my poor guards will need to be tended too. Please, continue enjoying yourselves."

"Don't be ridiculous," Balgruuf told her. "I cannot enjoy myself while poor guards have died. I think the party is over – for me at least."

"…There's a killing blizzard out there, you tell me, and you would go out into it?" Elenwen asked dubiously – and suspiciously.

"A killing wind for any non-Nord, but a stiff winter breeze for the sons of Ysgramor," Balgruuf informed her, admittedly taking a bit of malicious pleasure in watching her face pale to pasty yellow. "Let us gather your poor guards, who were only defending us, and lay them out for burning."

"A fine idea!" Idgrod agreed.

"As regrettable as their loss is, the guards can wait until the blizzard dies down-"

"In Skyrim, we burn the bodies of the frozen dead as soon as we find them, lest they rise up as ice-wraiths," Balgruuf continued. "That is why every Nord must travel to the north of Skyrim and kill an ice-wraith as their rite of adulthood; they are laying to rest the unquiet spirits of the winter-dead."

"If you wish to detail some guards, I cannot stop you," Elenwen finally conceded with poorly hidden ill grace. "But I'll not hear of a Jarl subjecting himself to… to… physical labour. My honour couldn't bear the brunt of the disgrace as a poor host."

"Nonsense, woman! In Skyrim, when the winter nears, the Jarl strips down and chops firewood and butchers hogs with the least of his people," Balgruuf assured her heartily. "I owe these brave mer my life; how can I stint them the rituals they deserve to rest easily for the sake of my own comfort?"

Elenwen seethed and scowled but there was nothing she could do except acquiesce gracefully and allow Balgruuf, Lydia and Idgrod to bundle themselves up in their cloaks and head outside with oil from the kitchen. The frost-killed snowberry bushes made for excellent kindling… and concealed the epicentre of the blizzard, near the door to Elenwen's solar.

Balgruuf wondered if his brother and father had smelt like burning pork when the Thalmor unleashed witch-fire on them. It was poetic he should be burning the corpses of Altmer soldiers to prevent the Dragonborn from being detected.

The crackling of the fire allowed the trio to talk softly amongst themselves. "So that's your lady," Idgrod murmured as the Thalmor, stripped frugally of their armour, were consumed in blue-gold flame from expensive oils. "She solved a murder and dealt with a threat to Morthal on her way through."

"She's a knack for such things," Balgruuf agreed softly.

"Good. She'll need it in coming days."

When they entered the Embassy again, Elenwen was arguing with Ondolemar, the chief of Skyrim's Justicars, about some incident in Markath. Judging by the peevish expression on the Ambassador's face, she was losing the battle. The shaven-headed wizard didn't even have Elenwen's diplomacy, being open about the Thalmor's eventual goal of conquering Tamriel. Balgruuf oddly liked him: better an honest threat than a dishonest one.

By the time that a bloody Justicar staggered into the room and said they'd been robbed during the blizzard, Elenwen looked ready to snap. Then her eyes narrowed and she cursed in Altmeris. "That green-eyed bitch!"

"I _told_ you snatching a member of the Thieves' Guild would bring reprisals," Ondolemar pointed out smugly.

"Reprisals? I will burn their fucking rat-hole to ash!" With some difficulty Elenwen smoothed her features and turned to the guests with what passed for an apologetic smile.

"I am so sorry about this. I shall have to throw another soiree to make up for this one so horribly ruined by criminal scum."

"You have nothing to apologise for," Balgruuf told her sincerely. "Things like this are out of the control of men and mer alike."

Elenwen made some more small talk before allowing everyone to leave. Relaxing in the leather cushions of his covered cart, the one he shared with Idgrod and Lydia, Balgruuf allowed himself to relax. He had to trust Lia knew what she was doing. But by the gods she owed him an explanation.

…

Lia didn't even bother stopping to inform Delphine of what went down at the Thalmor Embassy. Esbern's life was in danger and at the moment, the loremaster was a higher priority than the Second Blade. So she hijacked the drunken Razelan's carriage, since he hailed from Windhelm of all places, and stuffed herself, Malborn and Etienne into it with his cooperation. He was apparently a fifth cousin of Ulfric and the Jarl of Windhelm's nearest male relative. Looked like the Thalmor were grooming him as a replacement, because no one else would have survived so many gaffes in front of Elenwen. Her discipline was admirable.

When they got off at Windhelm, liberal application of healing magic had gotten Etienne into a state to travel on horse; Lia advised Malborn to stay low on this side of Skyrim. "No need to tell me twice," the Bosmer replied tersely. "Elenwen will hunt me for the rest of my life."

"Take these papers to Ulfric Stormcloak," Lia told him, having read and memorised the Jarl's dossier. "He might find them… interesting."

"Hope he doesn't like to kill the messenger," Malborn observed sarcastically.

"He's a rebel, not stupid," Lia pointed out dryly. "Tell him the Blades send their regards."

"What if he asks your name?"

"You don't _know_ my name," she pointed out. "And… well… I'm not the only Bruma Nord in Skyrim. A few joined the Stormcloaks."

Given that Bruma Nords were olive-skinned and aquiline like their Imperial ancestors but with the pale eyes and height of their Nord kin, there was little Malborn could say to that. If she survived Alduin, he might make for a useful ally.

The Bosmer nodded and climbed out of the carriage before Lia and Etienne did. "Safe journeys," he said before turning for the gates.

"No rest for us," Lia told the Breton thief regretfully. "We need to get going."

Thankfully, the stablemaster was happy to accept the goods pilfered from Elenwen's place and Lia's enchanted silver jewellery in lieu of coin for a horse and rickety cart. Lia rubbed her gloved hands, distantly recalling the days of rosewater and sheep's fat salves. She hoped none of this would get back to Titus and jeopardise Martin's future.

It was a long trip to Riften by half-dead horse and cart, punctuated by bandits with death wishes, a random vampire with a similar issue, handfuls of jazbay grapes and a Stormcloak patrol. Lia fried the first two and told the third the truth that they were on the run from the Thalmor; even then they were difficult until she stood up, proving to be only an inch shorter than the female soldiers. Ralof, their leader, grunted and let her pass with an admonition she should join the fight to free Skyrim.

Riften was a cosmopolitan city… for the Stormcloaks. Nords and Dunmer crowded the streets but an Argonian openly sold jewellery in the marketplace, the fishmonger's wife was a Bosmer, and a Khajiit wandered around without being bothered beyond wary glances from the guards. Only Whiterun and Solitude had more diversity.

They were not five steps into the marketplace when a handsome red-haired Nord with the loveliest eastern High Rock accent approached them. "Running a little light in the pockets, lass?" he purred.

"Yes, but not interested," she muttered. She was no longer a whore.

"Brynjolf," Etienne spoke, pushing his hood back far enough to show his face. "She saved me from the Thalmor."

"The Thalmor?" The Thief's eyes narrowed. "And here I thought you'd scampered after that heist gone wrong."

"Look, it's not my fault Delvin and Vex mistook 'firs' for 'furs'," the Breton answered flatly. "I've been fucking tortured and we're probably being chased."

"Well…" Brynjolf stroked his bearded chin. "If you do a favour for me, lass, I can arrange sanctuary with my organisation-"

Lia grabbed him by the front of his brocade coat and stared into his eyes, allowing the dovah within to reveal itself. "You are hiding a Blade named Esbern. I saved one of your people. _You _owe _me_ the favour."

She released Brynjolf; the Thief staggered back, eyes widening, as Lia smugly congratulated herself on intimidating the man. "Dragonborn," he breathed, glancing around before looking to Etienne. "I am actually working at the moment. Etienne, can you function?"

"Yes, unless I'm expected to be an acrobat," the Breton responded dryly.

"Good. I need you to plant something on Brand-Shei." Eyes slid back to Lia, who smiled. She knew enough not to piss off the Thieves in their own territory.

"I feel the need to go shopping!" she announced, slipping away.

Half an hour later, Brynjolf was leading them through the Ratway. "Mercer will have my balls, but you've earned free passage," he explained. "Just so long as you understand what happens in the Flagon, stays in the Flagon."

"Sweetheart, I'm Aurelii. I can keep my mouth shut."

Brynjolf looked at her oddly, then sighed. "Lass, you should be in the Guild. Larceny's in your blood."

"So's murder but you don't see me joining the Dark Brotherhood. No offence, but I've got enough on my plate with Alduin."

Brynjolf smiled charmingly at her, having recovered his nerve, and Lia felt a warm tingle. This man was _very_ persuasive. "Maybe when you're done…?"

"I have a son and man to return to," she responded, savouring the truth of that statement. With Shouts to back her up, she could surely talk Titus into letting Martin be fostered in Skyrim for a few years. It would do him good.

At the door to the Vaults, she went alone. Dropping into a slow crawl, she was still surprised by the Thalmor already there. "Get the Thief!" commanded Nurancar the Younger, Elenwen's only son.

"Stealth isn't your strong point, is it?" she taunted as she conjured an ice spike directly at his face.

It was a short but nasty fight, Lia picking up a gash that hampered her ability to cast from her left hand. Finally she made it to the ironbound door Esbern huddled behind, shaking her head at the man's inability to conceal his presence.

"Let me be!" he cried.

"I remember the 30th of Frostfall, when the news came from the Imperial City. You and Delphine hugged each other and wept, but you found it in you to give me a honey cake when I asked you for one because I was too young to understand," Lia answered softly but distinctly.

Esbern was silent for a moment before opening the peephole. "Little Lia," he breathed. "What are you doing here?"

"The dragons have returned, I've pissed off the Thalmor and they're coming here," Lia responded. "I need you, Esbern."

The loremaster sighed. "Little Lia, Alduin cannot be stopped. All we can do is prepare for the inevitable-"

"Get the Thief!"

_Fuck, Thalmor are _so_ predictable,_ Lia thought as she turned around to Shout the wizard to the ground, following up by leaping onto the elf with a drawn dagger and burying it into his throat. Behind her, Esbern worked on opening the ten or so locks he probably had on his door.

She had to kill three more Altmer – for beings who longed for immortality, they sure as fuck threw their lives away easily enough – before Esbern's conjured Atronach finished off the last of them. "Let me get a few books," he told the injured mage, who spent the last of her magicka healing herself. "There's some things I can't let the Thalmor get their hands on."

"Fair enough, old man."

They were unmolested on the way back… only because the rest of the Thalmor death squad was trying to kill the Thieves. Esbern conjured another atronach, a frost one, and sent it wading into the mass of the Thalmor to slaughter them with no compunction. Lia grabbed a nearby magicka potion, downed it, and then threw a fireball into the mix.

The explosion killed the rest of the Thalmor. But the Thieves were not untouched; two lay dead, one of them a Guild Master named Delvin and poor Etienne who had succumbed to his wounds. Of the Guild Master Brynjolf called Mercer, nothing could be found.

"Oh damn," Lia breathed. "I am so sorry this was brought to you."

Brynjolf swore, his face like thunder. "Maven was supposed to warn us of shit like this!" he snapped. "How could she not know?"

Lia vaguely recalled the sour-faced Black-Briar matriarch at the soiree. "Maybe they dealt with her somehow?" she suggested tentatively.

The red-haired Nord swore again. "Dragonborn, you owe us two lives. I'll give you a choice between joining our organisation or bringing us four thousand septims in loot."

She took a deep breath, recalling a bit of chance gossip she'd heard between Vex and Delvin. "I'll find out why your luck's gone sour. You've definitely pissed off someone, and with my knowledge of Daedric Princes and Their spheres, I'd say it's Nocturnal."

"Nocturnal?"

"Patron of Thieves," observed a soft, breathy voice from the darkest shadows. "And I can tell you how, Brynjolf."

"…Karliah." The Guild Master's hand drifted to his bloody dagger. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't-"

"Open the vault doors. You and Vex. And tell me what is there," a violet-eyed Dunmer suggested as she emerged from the shadows. "Mercer Frey has been defrauding the Guild for twenty years."

Growling but with little choice, Brynjolf and Vex did as she suggested. Their curses were loud enough to wake the dead god Shor when it was discovered Karliah, who'd apparently murdered the previous Guildmaster Gallus, was correct. She quickly spun her tale while Esbern and Lia shifted awkwardly, unable to figure out what to do.

Finally, the Dunmer talked the Guild into relenting, promising that she _did_ have a trail of clues. "Your mage friend will be able to help, because Enthir can translate – I hope – Gallus' journal," she said.

"My priority's the dragons," Lia said warningly.

"I know," Karliah responded with a smile. "Esbern is an old friend of mine."

Brynjolf cursed again before rubbing his head. "We're going to Winterhold," he told Vex. "You're in charge. Raise Sapphire to Master status."

"As you wish," the Imperial Thief responded sarcastically.

"We're going through Riverwood first," Lia responded flatly. "I have things I need to get."

"Of course, lass." Despite the pain and blood, Brynjolf smiled at her. "Reckon I might be able to steal you from your man?"

Lia laughed at him. "Not a hope in hell, Thief."

…

"So two Thieves, two Blades and a Dragonborn walk into Dragonsreach…"

Balgruuf shoved aside his accounts at the gladdening sound of Lia's voice and rose to his feet. The Dragonborn looked like she was in several fights and had travelled across half of Skyrim. Judging by the rumours from Windhelm and Riften, she had.

"Woman, I should lock you up," he growled. "Do you understand how much bullshitting I had to do with Elenwen to throw her off the scent?"

Lia looked chagrined and grateful. "You didn't send her after the Thieves, did you?" she asked worriedly. "Because that's where the Thalmor went."

"No, that was Ondolemar the Justicar," Balgruuf admitted. "What the hell were you doing?"

She shut the door, cast a Silence Ward, and told him in no uncertain terms. Balgruuf indulged himself in some choice language at the political shitstorm induced by one Blade's need to feel like she was in control. But it seemed like the mission was a success; Esbern had been Farengar's mentor at one point, according to the court mage, and was the last Blades loremaster according to Lia.

He told her what he'd done, watching her face change like a stormy spring sky. Once or twice, her turquoise eyes slitted as the dovah soul within showed itself – with pleasure he realised it was whenever he'd flirted with danger to protect her. When he was done explaining himself, she took a shaky breath… before grabbing him in a fierce embrace and kissing him.

The rest of the world vanished in the spicy fragrance of his dragoness, the honey taste of her mouth, the skilful application of ruddy lips to his flesh that left a trail of heat. Somewhere along the line the fragile cotton of her tunic was torn when his hands fisted in the fabric, his thigh wedged between her legs as he pressed her to the wall. He kissed her because he could, nipping until her collarbone was darkened. It was perhaps arrogant of him, given that she wore the mark of the Emperor on her arm, but… he didn't care.

When the door opened, he rounded on the intruder with a savage curse, only to find the too-handsome man in Thieves' Guild armour staring at them in shock. "I see what you meant by 'not a hope in hell', lass," he observed.

Lips swollen from kisses, eyes slitted from passion, Lia glared at the Thief. "This better be good, Brynjolf," she snapped.

"Do you have somewhere we can stash Delphine and Esbern? Mercer's a bit more immediate than Alduin," the lout responded.

"Breezehome," Balgruuf rasped. "I was going to give it to Lia anyways-"

"I can't afford it!" she snapped at _him._ "I'll dump them in Winterhold."

"Dammit, woman, the house is sitting empty. Let me give it to you!"

"I'll earn it!" she retorted. "I won't be given something just- just-"

Balgruuf regarded Brynjolf with an eloquent "Get the fuck out of here" glance before turning back to Lia. Wisely, the Thief left, allowing the Jarl to soothe his dragoness with kisses. "I'm sorry, sweetheart," he murmured, looking into those eyes. "I didn't mean to imply you were earning it on your back."

"I know…" Lia sighed, wiping at her face. "It's just that… _fuck._ I ran into two women these past two weeks who wanted me dead as a kid. And sooner or later, Elenwen will compare notes with her husband Nurancar – charmingly called the Butcher of Bruma – and put two and two together. And Martin will be in danger and-"

"Martin is under the protection of Rikke and Hadvar," he reminded her. "Speaking of the Civil War, you're not going to believe who sent me his axe."

"…Axe?" she asked doubtfully.

"Yes, an axe. If a Jarl sends his axe to another, it is an overture of peace. If the Jarl keeps it, there is no war between them. If it's returned…" Balgruuf smiled at her, tucking back a tendril of black hair. "Ulfric sent me an axe and a thank you to the Dragonborn. What did you do for him?"

Lia took a shaky breath. "I sent him his Thalmor dossier and a note explaining just how the goldskins condition their victims into doing exactly what they want. I figured he could use a little self-reflection."

Balgruuf closed his eyes, resting his chin on her head. "You have bought us some time. I only pray the Empire doesn't do anything stupid."

"I'm not happy about getting sidetracked with the Thieves, but I owe them one," she sighed. "I'm hoping once in Winterhold, they'll bugger off."

Balgruuf echoed her sigh. "It may not be a bad thing you've delayed being greeted by the Greybeards," he observed. "Once you become known throughout Skyrim…"

"…There goes your ace up the sleeve," she said dryly – and accurately.

"You know me so well…" Balgruuf kissed the top of her head. "I will do my best to buy you time, love. Just don't do anything that overtaxes me, yeah?"

"I'll do my best," she promised. "I don't know why I wound up in Whiterun, of all places… but I'm glad I did. I'm glad you walked into the Bannered Mare that day."

"Me too," he breathed, claiming her lips in another kiss, "Me too."


	4. Chapter 4

Note: Thanks for reading! Lia's got a double-bonus to Enchanting and Destruction from her Imperial and Redguard ancestry despite being racially a Nord in game terms; the only good thing her dad gave her. :P I'm also treating the Norcs as something slowly approaching the Bretons; generations of interbreeding are slowly producing a new race. Hrafn's boy Oleg has the voice of Gideon Emery as Fenris in Dragon Age 2. (Seriously, YouTube it. His voice is audio erotica).

…

"So. You and the Jarl of Whiterun, lass?"

"Yes, Brynjolf," Lia responded wearily as they plodded towards Winterhold. "Why so surprised?"

The miserable huddle of buildings perched against the shattered cliffs that called itself Winterhold was still colder and windier than Kynareth's privy parts but Lia was pleased to see Ranmir outside working the forge out the back of his sister's shop. Finding the fate of his lost love had given him closure, if nothing else, and gotten him out of the Frozen Hearth. Korir, the Jarl of Winterhold, was on his front doorstep abusing a harried-looking Enthir. Lia hadn't been surprised to find out he was the Thieves' Guild contact in Winterhold. No wonder he was so organised!

"I'm not. Jealous, but not surprised," the Nightingale murmured. "You're a fine-looking lass with a lot of class. The man has excellent taste in women."

"Thanks, Brynjolf," Lia answered with genuine pleasure before looking to Enthir. "Shit, what's up Korir's arse now?"

Lia strode towards the Jarl, knowing as Thane of Winterhold he would have to listen to her. "What in the name of Dibella's sacred petals of Her innermost flower is going on?"

Korir regarded her with sour surprise. "You've remembered Winterhold, I see."

"I'm sorry. I've been a little busy with the dragon threat as the College's Master Emeritus," Lia retorted acidly. The Jarl had been livid when he discovered she was a mage but was forced to be civil because she was his only Thane. Winterhold was the one place she couldn't even buy a house, whereas Idgrod had dropped hints about a prime piece of land and Siddgeir was all but begging her to come to Falkreath. Pity for the both of them she was planning to settle in Whiterun.

"What if a dragon attacks Winterhold?" Korir demanded.

"It couldn't do much worse to the place, lad," Brynjolf observed sardonically. "Mind if we be taking your Master Wizard?"

"Please do," Enthir pleaded.

"I'll brief the Jarl on the dragon threat while you and Karliah sort out your business," Lia suggested.

"Of course," Brynjolf responded smoothly, grabbing Enthir and leaving with Karliah for the inn just across the street.

Lia slanted a glance at the longhouse. "Can we go inside? It's colder than Kyne's windy cave out here."

Grudgingly, Korir moved aside so she could enter, and followed her. Inside, Thaena had let the fire-pit go out _again_ and Lia was glad she wore a wolfskin cloak over the long coat and dress Balgruuf had given her as a gift. Poor Assur was probably an icicle in his room upstairs. She watched Korir stalk to his fancy chair and sink down, striking the indolent pose most of the Jarls liked to affect. With his worn robes and copper crown, it looked… sad. He clung to ancient glories and a futile grudge because he had nothing else.

Kai Wet-Pommel, the Stormcloak Commander and likely the one who ran things here outside of the College, emerged from his bare room with a golden-haired Stormcloak in fine steel armour and a bearskin cloak in tow. Lia nodded to them both, trying to place the duo.

"So. Dragon threat, eh? You mages probably somehow brought them back," Korir observed flatly from his throne.

"If we're going to be technical, Ulfric killing Torygg set the last condition of the Prophecy of the Dragonborn," Lia corrected, glancing at the Stormcloaks.

"That is Jarl Ulfric to you!" Korir snapped. "He is the rightful High King of Skyrim!"

"I don't give a rat's ass if he's the rightful ruler of the flying purple people eaters," Lia drawled sardonically. "I am simply speaking fact."

"Even Ulfric admits that he regrets the death of Torygg in the wake of the dragons' return," the blond Stormcloak, who carried himself with easy authority, agreed. "But… no one expected the World-Eater to return when High Kings have died and Skyrim has fought over the throne before."

"Tell Ulfric thanks for being smart about the axe to Balgruuf," Lia told the man, who she suspected to be one of the Jarl's personal agents. "I'd bet cheese parings to septims we'll be needing Dragonsreach as a dragon trap sooner or later and I need the Jarl of Whiterun focused on the threat of Alduin, not invasion."

"Of course, Blade," the Stormcloak responded with a faint smile. "We're glad Balgruuf chose to keep it."

"Wait… Balgruuf's supporting Ulfric now?" Korir demanded. "And… you're one of the Imperial Blades? Fucking traitor-"

Lia couldn't help it; she threw a sleep spell on the man, sending him into the twelve-hour equivalent of a coma mid-tirade. Kai, who'd always appreciated the practicality of magic, coughed amusedly into his fist as the blond Stormcloak openly grinned. "I'm glad I didn't piss you off on your way to Riften," he observed, allowing Lia to place him.

"Ralof," she greeted, nodding politely.

"Ralof Snowhammer," the warrior corrected with a smile. "And you would be… Lia Dragonborn."

It was all she could do not to gape at the man but those sharp blue eyes sensed her shock. "After Whiterun and Riften, coupled with Malborn's descriptions of the Blade who saved his life and bade him to give certain files to Ulfric, it wasn't too hard to deduce your identity," he said dryly.

"How is Malborn?" she asked.

"Good. Contrary to popular Imperial opinion, we're not racist bastards, and… well… Malborn's description of life in Valenwood – what happened to his family… Even Ulfric was moved to tears."

"If Ulfric and his supporters had half a talent for diplomacy, they'd be making allies in Hammerfell and Valenwood," Lia pointed out. "Skyrim, point-blank, cannot stand alone against the Thalmor."

Ralof nodded in grim agreement. "I suspect those files you sent him confirmed that. It is… a bitter draught to drink."

"Look, things are bad in Skyrim, but they're infinitely worse in Cyrodiil," Lia said quietly, shuddering at too many grim memories. "You don't know persecution until you're a Bruma Nord who survived Cloud Ruler."

"The Empire failed us," Ralof agreed softly, bitterly. "Dragonborn, I know you're close to Balgruuf. Surely you can explain to him why he must stand with the Stormcloaks."

"Both sides have their points," Lia observed with a sigh. "I… have reasons to be loyal to the Empire as a whole, if not Titus Mede in particular. If I had my druthers, the next Emperor would be a Nord; I _know_ the White-Gold Concordat sucks, but it was literally a stop-gap measure to buy humanity enough time to… well… rebreed itself to fighting numbers again. By the end of the Great War, only two out of five people in Cyrodiil were alive. Everyone else got off easy."

"Talos!" Kai sounded sick. "Two out of every five Skyrim warriors died in that conflict!"

"And eighteen out of twenty Blades," Lia confirmed grimly. "Now…? There's probably only two real Blades left – only one of whom I think well – and several in deep cover I won't drag into trouble unless I absolutely must."

Ralof's eyes narrowed. "You seem familiar with high Imperial policy," he noted.

Lia crossed her arms, deciding to tell part of the truth. "The Emperor sent me to Skyrim as a diplomatic aide to General Tullius. The Thalmor agent Ancano got wind of it, called up the storm which drove the Winter War onto the rocks, and then made repeated attempts to murder me at the College… and that was _before_ it was discovered that yes, I am Dragonborn."

Kai grunted as Ralof pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're politically problematic," the Snowhammer finally observed. "But you make a lot of sense."

"I won't go into exact details about my position at the Imperial Court – because I have clan back home I need to protect, and the Penitus Oculatus is jumpier than a Breton rat-terrier these days – but I got to observe a lot of Elder Council meetings," Lia admitted. "I sympathise with Ulfric, especially after knowing what the Thalmor did to him – because I know the depths of depravity and viciousness Elenwen is capable of. But I can't support Skyrim breaking off from the rest of the Empire because even if there are a bunch of Colovians who have forgotten, I understand that it was Nord blood that built the Empire… and Nord blood that sustains it."

_And I think when I return, I'll remind the Elder Council of that fact,_ Lia thought grimly.

"You sound like Balgruuf," Ralof countered, a touch sourly.

"My Jarl's a smart man. I wish more of the Holds' rulers were like him."

Ralof shared her sour look at the snoring Korir, sprawled on his throne. "Point taken. But you have Siddgeir."

"Touché," Lia conceded. "I passed through Falkreath once. He tried to grab my ass. I shocked him. I still have an outstanding bounty in that place because he doesn't realise who I am."

Ralof snickered, shaking his head. "A horker would be a better Jarl than that one."

"Tell me about it. He reminds me of Armaund Motierre back home. Breton with his head so far up the Thalmor's collective ass he never sees daylight."

Kai rubbed his bearded chin thoughtfully. "I think it's safe to say you're not an enemy, Dragonborn."

"Not yet. Take one step towards Whiterun or Bruma and that may change."

The look the two Stormcloaks exchanged was cryptic before Ralof spoke. "I can promise that there will be no interference on our side of the war until Alduin is dead," he finally said. "Do you have enough authority to get the Imperials to agree to the same?"

"I'll try. But without particular papers…" Lia sighed. "Once Alduin is done, I intend to focus on the Thalmor. There is no greater threat to men and sane mer alike."

The Stormcloaks grinned approvingly. "We'll pass what you've said to Ulfric," Ralof promised, then glanced in her direction. "But if you serve the Empire, why give Ulfric diplomatic advice and those files?"

"Because I'm Dibellan and we won't use that sort of information as a weapon," Lia told them softly. "It goes against our entire philosophy – our very faith."

"Do you believe in Talos?" Kai asked.

"Yes. I just don't worship Him." Lia allowed herself a chuckle. "It's a pity Ulfric couldn't meet Aurelia Swan-Neck. She's the daughter of an Altmer mother and an Akaviri man who literally knew Talos." _On several levels,_ she thought wryly.

The Stormcloaks made a collective choking noise, drawing an amused smile from the Dragonborn. "Is there anything else? I need to report to the College and restock while I'm here."

Ralof, who was obviously the more competent of the two, shook his head. "Thank you for your time, Dragonborn," he said politely, still a bit taken aback. "Talos guide you."

"And you," Lia said with perfect sincerity. It was good to know that one side would be reasonable about this.

…

Balgruuf was more intimate with his horse's saddle than he liked to be these days, but with the secret of the Dragonborn's identity leaking out like an old boat on the Sea of Ghosts, he needed to perform damage control more than he'd like. Hence his current presence in Half-Moon Hold, a stronghold of mixed Nords and Orcs located at the junction of Whiterun and Eastmarch. Its current leader, the Norc chieftain Hrafn the Foe-Reaper, was a veteran of the Great War with connections to both Ulfric and Rikke. Despite being the ugliest son of a bitch this side of Sovngarde, the mostly Nord 'Jarl' was one of the shrewdest politicians in Skyrim… and thus Balgruuf's first choice to approach about supporting a peace summit. Or at least a truce until Alduin was dead.

"Sigdrifa's girl's the Dragonborn?" Hrafn observed with a low whistle as they lounged in his Great Hall, drinking the snowberry mead that the Foe-Reapers' wives brewed every winter. A shrine to Malacath was set at the southern end of the hall and the Axe of Talos at the north; the Norcs worshipped both whenever it was convenient. Hrafn's people – wives, children and the odd adult male who had sworn allegiance to him – bustled about preparing for winter. Most were Orc-dominant but with finer features than their pureblood cousins while the Nord-dominant ones (like Hrafn) had pronounced underbites. But one and all had the extraordinary gold-washed turquoise eyes of their first Nord ancestress Sofja Bright-Moon and the silky black hair of their Orc ancestor Oleg Half-Human.

"Yeah," Balgruuf admitted easily. "I hope she'll stop by soon to see you. I think it will do her some good."

"She don't know it, but Uncle Urag's been keeping an eye on her at the College," Hrafn confided with a grin. "I keep on trying to make that man my court mage, but he got shitty after Arakh said the only good thing about books was that they made great kindling in winter."

The Jarl of Whiterun grunted. "I don't want to be offensive, but if your eldest boy becomes leader of your people, I'm not responsible for the steps I'll take."

Hrafn shrugged. "If he ain't strong enough to hold power, he don't deserve it."

"Your love and affection for your sons is blinding," Balgruuf observed sardonically.

The Foe-Reaper gave him a slightly melancholy smile. "One of my boys will one day kill me, Balgruuf. It's the way of Malacath. I love them, but some are rising man-high and starting to get ideas."

"Skyrim will lose a mighty Jarl when you die," Balgruuf said sincerely. Technically the Foe-Reaper was his vassal, but the Jarl of Whiterun had always treated the man as an equal. If he'd been anything other than a Norc, he'd be one by now. But some people feared that an enlightened man like Hrafn would be replaced by a thug like Arakh or just feared a non-human(ish) Jarl.

"If Malacath's will matches with my own, my boy Oleg will follow me," Hrafn confided softly. "He's smart and tougher than he looks."

Balgruuf nodded approvingly. Oleg was a decent skald with his sweetly gravelled voice and was looking to become a bard at the College in Solitude. "Can he fight?"

Hrafn snorted. "You think I'd let my boys go into the world without knowing how to protect themselves and their people?"

"My bad." Balgruuf drank a little of the sweet mead. He'd need to introduce this to Lia to wean her off the slightly bitter Alto wine. "Lia wants Ulfric and Tullius to pinkie-swear they won't fight until Alduin is dead."

The Foe-Reaper spat out his drink and roared with laughter. "I'd pay to watch that!"

"Good. I intend to have you there as my backup at the truce-Moot I want to host."

Hrafn's laughter eventually died down and he nodded. "Of course. I mean, Ulfric can be racist at times, but he's always civil to me… and Tullius might be a good general, but he's got shit-for-brains when it comes to diplomacy."

"Lia had been sent to, ah, remedy that," Balgruuf confessed. "But the Thalmor drove her ashore with a storm and her papers are at the bottom of the sea."

"She would have survived because of Sigdrifa's ring," Hrafn told Balgruuf softly. "I gave it to Irkand to give to her."

"Irkand?"  
"Her paternal uncle. Ruthless kinslaying son of a bitch but still a better man than Rustem, Lia's daddy." Hrafn spat in disgust. "Bastard ran at Cloud Ruler. Left his woman and family to die to save his own skin."

Balgruuf echoed Hrafn's action, the spittle soaking into the rushes on the floor. "If I ever meet the bastard, I'll kill him."

The Foe-Reaper's smile was tight. "Get in line. Lot of people with better claims."

He nodded to acknowledge the truth of that statement. "I… love her. Every time I needed her, she has done her best to be there. She protected my city from the dragons. She's beautiful…"

"That love sayin' that?"

"Hrafn, the only signs of her Norc ancestry are her black hair, sea-coloured eyes and the cutest little pair of under-fangs I've ever seen. Otherwise, she looks like a stunningly lovely Bruma Nord woman." Balgruuf sighed, remembering the kiss she'd rewarded him with for defending her against Elenwen.

"Well I'll be damned. Sigdrifa and Rustem bred themselves a good-lookin' diplomat battlemage who's also Dragonborn." Hrafn downed his third flagon of mead. "The Thalmor will be over her like white on rice."

"She's already pissed them off. Killed a bunch of guards with a blizzard spell and stole files. Got Ulfric willing to talk by sharing the dossier involving him."

Hrafn nodded grimly. "I ain't surprised. Rikke and I pulled that poor bastard out of the Thalmor torture camp. Ain't no man who deserves to go through what he did."

"I… gather Lia's life was no bed of roses from Cloud Ruler to… whenever." Balgruuf remembered Lia's tacit trust in his tact and added, "She and Ulfric would have something to empathise in together."

"If you're tactfully referring to her being Titus Mede's unwilling Consort, I already know," Hrafn said flatly. "Irkand came here because he couldn't rage to anyone else. But he gritted his teeth and put up with it because it was what was needed."

"Fucking Colovian bastard," Balgruuf muttered. "If the Empire wasn't so fucking necessary…"

The Foe-Reaper leaned back in his comfortable seat. "You know she had a boy?"

"…Yeah." It seemed the Foe-Reaper had kept up to date about his distant kinswoman.

"Titus Mede, from what I gather, reckons he can get the Nord outta the boy and raise him Imperial, but we'll fall behind him 'cause he's got Nord blood," Hrafn observed dryly. "But that old bastard is nearly ninety years kicking and I hear some of the Elder Council's got a kitty together to… ah… send him onto Akatosh."

Balgruuf stared at the man, impressed his sources were so good. Hrafn might be an adept politician, but he was honest just like his Orc father. "How the fuck do you know that?"

"Man by name of Armaund Motierre been approachin' disaffected nobles throughout the Empire," the Foe-Reaper answered softly. "I'm one of them. He thinks I'm dumb enough to fall in with a plot backed by the fucking Thalmor."

"Elder Council you say?"

"Yup."

Balgruuf grinned evilly. "Guess who's taken rooms for a month or two at the Bannered Mare?"

"You're fuckin' kidding me." Hrafn echoed Balgruuf's grin, the expression more evil on him because of the tusks.

"I'm as serious as a Greybeard." Balgruuf sipped his mead with a smirk. "Tell him I'm interested in his… ah… plan and that I want to meet with him in Dragonsreach."

"Oh Balgruuf, why can't you be a woman and my fifth wife?" Hrafn asked. "Because I'm bettin' you're planning on havin' a certain General with a fondness for fish sauce and tactlessness as a guest at the same time."

"We think along the same lines." Balgruuf looked the Foe-Reaper up and down before adding, "And Lia thinks she gets her streak of evil cunning from her Aurelii ancestors. Think we should tell her she's wrong?"

"Only if we've got a running start," Hrafn advised. "I'd rather not get Shouted at."

"Don't worry. I'll kiss her while you tell her. Hopefully she won't kill me and you'll get your running start."

"You better marry her when this is done. I'd hate to have to kill you because you're a friend."

"If she'll have me, I will." Balgruuf poured himself some more mead and said, "So – what kind of discounts would your nephew-in-law get on ebony from your mine?"

Hrafn responded with an insultingly small offer and Balgruuf answered with an Orcish obscenity that had the Foe-Reaper rolling on the floor with laughter. Mostly because Balgruuf had told him he'd make tender love to him instead of a cruder variant of the word. But as always, they worked out a theoretical deal, and then went onto other topics. Because even in Skyrim, politics never stopped… and it was about damned time the Imperials learned how Nords played the game.


End file.
